In the middle of
April, it rained for two weeks straight. I was teaching a remedial English
class at a campus thirty miles away and was required to give a standardized,
three-part exam one week early. I dropped my fiancé off at home in a downpour
and was right on schedule. I only had ten minutes of leeway in my commute, but
I had never been late to class, even in the middle of Michigan’s unreliable
winter.
I was on the
phone with my friend J. when I hit a microwave-sized pothole. For a few
milliseconds, it sounded and felt like Thor was trying to golf my car out of
the rough with Mjölnir.
